The man goes out in the yard with the dog. He has turned on the only light, a green flood light that illuminates the area darkly but adequately. The small, spotted dog, after urinating, then forages a bit, then stops under the bird feeders, listening. The man is listening, too. There are just the distant sounds of the light Sunday night traffic on the road beyond the PVC fence and the warehouses beyond. The fence is draped with Brazilian pepper bushes.
And the man is thinking: It is January. Will I finish things this year? Will I persevere, or will another year just pass with nothing really done?
The dog, after a while, goes in the open door to the shed and the Florida room and waits to be re-admitted to the house.
The man stands for a moment, still in the yard, alone. It has been cool. There is a breeze.
He thinks, he fears…
He will merely think about changing, about doing things. But he will do nothing. Just hope he has another January. But for what?
And the man thinks, I cannot think that way.
The dog is waiting….
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